Dropped Burdens
by Flatkatsi
Summary: Giving up is always difficult.


Author's Note: Thanks to Nutty for giving me the whip and for the beta. There is a sequel to this story - 'Solitary Burdens'.

Dropped Burdens

* * *

The knotted tip of the lash struck the man between the shoulder blades, making him flinch. He bit into the soft flesh of his lip and struggled to his feet, dried dirt falling from the knees of his trousers. Pulling forward on the yoke, he dragged the heavy wagon mere inches before collapsing once more, his breath rasping up his throat and exploding out through his clenched teeth with a desperate groan.

This time he was more prepared, the touch of knotted leather stinging across skin already lacerated by countless blows, a familiar pain. He only shut his eyes, allowing himself an internal scream, holding it within.

Again and again and again the whip came down, until he could stay on his knees no longer, falling bonelessly face forward onto the track.

He stayed motionless, his chest rising in agonised gasps. Finally his tormentor stopped, panting, his ruddy face made redder by exertion. Bending down, he prodded the figure on the ground with the whip handle, pushing with all his considerable might, reluctant to give up the game so soon. He took the yoke from the man's shoulders, unlocking the ill fitting wooden collar and exposing the raw flesh underneath. Another sharp jab, this time to the small of the back, still elicited no response and he muttered a string of curses.

After a few minutes he gave a frustrated roar of disgust, letting loose a massive kick, catching the body under the chest and rolling it face down into the ditch beside them. He watching again for any movement, and seeing none, strode to the back of the wagon to unhitch the sad excuse for what passed as a donkey in these parts, pulling it to the front of the wagon and placing it where the man had been only minutes before. A short battle for supremacy later and the wagon began its journey once again.

The muddy water pooled and collected under the body, dammed up by the obstruction, and flowed into the small depression under the unconscious man's face. Slowly the puddle filled, the thick liquid carrying the cloying smell of blood and dirt mixed into a concoction as deadly as any poison. It rose, seeping into the green cloth covering his chest, filling and engulfing, until eventually it lapped at the slightly open mouth, seeking entry.

Somewhere under the agony, the desire to survive still lurked, electrical impulses still sent signals to the sluggish brain, urging action. Somewhere, deep within himself instinct rose unbidden, and with the first liquid breath, took the abused body in hand and pushed it over, jerking in abrupt movement, twisting where twisting should not be possible. The splash of water came as counterpoint to the cry of anguish, as the spreading pool turned crimson and scored flesh filled with mud.

He opened his eyes and stared up into the sullenly cloudy sky, watching the grey formations edged with the white of the sun, marching on, tossed and turned by the wind, creating fantastic shapes that filled his imagination and left him breathless with wonder. He realised that all those nights spent looking out a telescope at far flung stars had made him blind to the beauty closer to home and so easily seen. He smiled. It was ironic that this epiphany had taken place on a world so far from his own, and perhaps too late.

The pain flared again suddenly, but he blinked and pushed it down until it was locked far inside, in that tiny corner of darkness that was already filled to overflowing and bursting at the seams. He pushed it down to join the rest, firmly reining it in as it protested, trying to escape and free itself. He pushed it down and squashed away the lash marks, scored deep enough to expose bone and muscle, imprisoned the broken ribs and shackled the skinned shoulders, ignoring them as he lay and waited.

He lay there, waiting for something he knew was inevitable, his eyes resolutely open, staring upwards to the heavens.

It would happen, he knew that with a certainty that was profound. He had no choice this time. This time he had to wait, this time there was no point fighting, no point trying to get up and meet it half way.

This time he had to give in.

But there was one way he could protest his failure to prevail. He kept his eyes open, refusing to sink into the black.

Finally, as he had expected, it happened, its suddenness surprising none the less for being expected. He was startled into a groan of pain, at once annoyed with himself for his weakness.

At last. This time he was ready and welcomed his fate.

The arms reached down and took him up, pulling him back into the light, and he heard the strong voice calling quietly to him.

"We have you, O'Neill."

He let himself rest at last.

The End


End file.
